What are ye women doing? Get ye hence, Nor weary God with prayers. But when I die, Lay me not there among the peaceful graves Where sleep your puny saints. I would go hence, Over the loud ways of the sea again, In my black ship, with all the war-shields out, Nor, beaten, crawl unto the knees of God, To whine there a whipped hound. Yea, send me forth As when I sought rich lands, and glittering gold, And warm, white-breasted women, and red wine, And all the splendour and the lust of war.
Your Eden lies among soft-slipping streams, Green meadows, orchards of o'er-laden boughs, Red with ripe apples. It hath lofty walls Beyond our scaling, that the peaceful folk May sleep each night securely: white-faced priests, And convent women, such as wail all day Before lit candles, in the idle fume Of incense rising. I would go where sit Tall Odin, and his golden-mailÉd sons, Thor, Hermod, Tyr and Heimdail, Frey and Niord, With the blue-vestured Mother of the Gods, And saffron-snooded Freya, and Idun, And Brage, harping. There the heroes are, Whose armour rusts in ocean; and young men Who fared with me adventuring, and lie Now in an alien earth, or derelict drift Upon the washings of the eternal tides. But they still live in Asgard, drinking joy Of battle, and of music, and of love. Only I, I grow old, and bowed in head, While the dark hour approaches and the night, Exploring mine own soul, and lost therein. I too would go and eat of Idun's apples, The golden fruit, whereof the taste gives youth Perpetual, and strength of hands renewed; Be praised by Brage, and see Freya there, The saffron-snooded, whose deep eyes are lit With all love's perilous pleasures. I would ride Over the glittering Bifrost bridge with Thor And the great host of heroes; with the wind Playing upon our banners, and the dawn Leaping as flame from all the lifted swords, And press of spears: and some day we shall come Battering at the crystal walls of Heaven, With brazen clangour of arms, and burn the towers To be our torches, and make all the streets Of jasper, and chalcedony, and pearl, Slippery with the bloodshed. Will your saints Pray back the onslaught of our lusting swords With any prayers? I would not lie in earth Under the sheep; but send me once again Out through the storms, and though I lie there cold, And stiff in my bronze harness, I shall hear The exultation of the waves, the might Of Aegir, and the creaking of the helm, And dream the helm is in mine hands again, While my long ship leaps up, like a live thing, Against the engulphing waters, and triumphing rides, Through thunder of turbulent surges and streaming seas, Lifting and swaying, from trough to crest and trough, With tense and grinding timbers, while the wind Screams in the cordage and the splitten sail.
Ye have loved women, some of ye, and know Therefore how I have loved the fickle sea, Blue in the sunlight, sometimes, as the eyes Of laughing children, wanton as a girl, And then all hunger for us men, all fierce Passionate longing, and then gray with rain, Sullen. A very harlot is the sea, A thing for men to master, full of moods, Treacherous, as you see it when it crawls Snakily over sunken rocks, or slinks Furtively by, and snarls to show its teeth Like a starved wolf. Many a goodly man Women have loved and slain, but more the sea! Though I forget, they are meeker women here, Submissive to their master. They are not The wild things that men warred with in my youth, Haggards to gentle! These soft-bosomed doves Who flutter round our footsteps, croon and coo Amorous music through the languorous nights, Low laughter stifled by close kisses shut Hot on the laughing lips, love being a game Now of your tamer men-folk with soft speech. But love to me was no light laughter heard Under a sickle moon, when blossoming brakes Thrill with the nightingales, and eve is hushed Like a blind maid, whose eyes are shut, and seem To shut within herself her secret thoughts Lest men should know them, and be ware of love, And waken, eager. Eager! Love to me Pulsed in the fingers and would clasp what seems So aerial a vision: to have, to hold, To drink of: and I knew how flesh could bound Spirit; so that we lay drowsed, close to sleep, Near as our bodies might, yet sundered thus With how irreparable loss! All time, Unborn or buried, meeting with our mouths In a swift marriage, and the sacred night Sweet with the song of arrowy desires Shot from the bow of life into our quick, And rooted there. Yea, life in one full pulse, And then the glory darkened, withered, dead, With lips dissevered, and with sundered limbs, And two, where had been one, in the gray dawn.
Sigurd, my son, look where thy mother sits, In the round archway, on her carven chair, And gazes over the unquiet waves Toward the horizon's calm, as if there lay Peace, and the heart's desire, after much pain, Fulfilled at last. Quietly sitting there, She peoples all the blue of sea and skies With golden hopes of youth, giving them life From her own yearning, though they are long dead And havened where dead years are. Such still eyes She hath; and that strange patience women have Whose dreams are broken. Love, with a keen sword, Smote me; I saw the blue flame leap and fall, When first I saw her eyes: and dim the earth, And warfare, and seafaring, and the life Which sang, and went with joyful colours clad, Became until they were as frail as dreams; While, as they died in dusk, her face grew fair Swimming upon tired senses, as there swims Up from the wreck of day the night's first star Quickening through the silence. So, in her, The music and the colour of the world, The splendours of the earth and sky and sea, Were shadowed: all of life was in her eyes.
Her house a shambles; and I, standing there, A beast all red with slaughter. One white face Like a white star! Was it not kingly spoil? What man had not felt hunger in his hands To flutter over the smooth flesh, and know The wonder breathing? So even I must grasp That winged, brief, fragile beauty, with rude strength Fierce from the haste of hunger, ere I knew What God had breathed his fire into my clay.
Yea! ere I knew, while yet I thought the gold Mere dross for traffic in the market-place, Such ware as I had dealt in. Mine eyes now See her, as she was then: the tall, slim grace, The golden head upon its silver stalk, As frail as April's dewy lilies are, Upon some wakening lawn; or as she lay With long, smooth, supple thighs and little breasts Bared, while mine eyes drank all the beauty in, As earth drinks dawn with gladness: but her eyes Veiled suddenly, and quick red stained her cheeks, Flickering, and the bright soul fled from sight To its obscure recesses, while my heart Filled, drop by drop, with that strange wine of joy Which raced like fire through me, until each sense Ached, for the joy it gave, and thirsted more, In plundering such pleasure. But her soul Fled beyond reach of hands, remote, and veiled. She lay there as if dead, and all my love Was no more to her than the idle strength Which breaks upon the beaches. I could feel, Sometimes, she breathed beside me, and her breath Came soft, and warm, through the red parted lips, Fragrant upon my face. That night was filled With myriad voices, myriad stars, and dews, All choric! Yea, the very darkness glowed With secret heat, as if the night were quick By Love's own lord, and pregnant with a flame.
So was she mine, by the sword's right, whose heart Went dreaming out over the unquiet sea To Bergthorsknoll; and Sigurd, Olaf's son, Such an one as the hearts of maids desire, Being tall, and straight, and comely: never a man Made such a friend or foe, on land or sea His hands were skilful. I can love such men In friendship or in fighting. He had come To Swinefell in his fighting-ship, when Spring Was white and ruddy in the fields and woods; And they, perchance, had bent down o'er the fire As day was closing, and had spoken low In the dim light; and he had sailed in June Southward for prey, descending toward the Seine With help from Thrain the White in ships and men. And I had come in autumn with my swords For vengeance of a wrong, and left Thrain's stead And town a heap of ash, being in wrath: Though it were shame to burn so tall a town, As men said; but the heart of me was grieved For some slight he had put on me, and black Is a man's anger; so I gave his stead A prey to the red flames; and fighting died Thrain, a man's death! But when I throned her here Men came and said, "Lo, now will Sigurd come For love of her, to take her hence again And burn Lithend for vengeance." But I said, Running my fingers down the smooth, keen blade, "Sigurd will come! Why then, let Sigurd come."
But they all feared him, and again one spoke, Saying, "Thy love will burn us, and our town. Are there not many women in the world To mate with, but the one he loves?" I struck The craven fool a damned blow in the face, Whereat they kept their counsel, and were still. But one man, riding over a wild moor When the black night was blacker with a storm Saw in the play of lightnings from the clouds Twelve armoured women riding, and they swooped Eagle-wise on the earth, and riding came To a lone house; and, spying through a chink, He saw them weave a scarlet web of war, With swords for shuttles, and men's heads for weights, And they sang at their weaving. In those days We sowed our corn with axes in our belts, And each man armoured, and my people went Fearfully, gazing out with anxious eyes Over the seas for an unfriendly sail, While I sat silent, eating mine own heart, Until one ran with speed to me, as night Came, dropping silence on the shining sea, A man with lucky eyes, who cried, "They come!" Pointing toward the rim of ocean, red With the sun's blood; and that sight gladdened me, To see their slack sails, idle, in a gore Of dying glories, while their oars dripped fire, Labouring up against the ebbing tide. "They will come weary," said I, "and, perchance, Lack water." And I set an ambush, there Where Rangriver turns bitter with the sea, If thirst should lure them; and they came with skins To fill; and there we played a little while With knives and axes, while they ran, and tripped Over gnarled roots and boulders in the dark, Calling their friends, and knew not where they ran, For we would call the names we heard them call In feigning, and thus lure them from the path. Twenty tall fellows slew we in this wise, Making the odds more even, and that night They watched their ships, and lit the beach with fires So that they might not fight an unseen foe, Who struck them through the darkness. But I went Homeward, and to the chamber where she lay Sleeping, with tears upon her face; but sleep Had stilled her troubles. As I looked on her, Her breath came softly, like a child's. I watched, Wondering if death might hold as fair a thing, Hungering, though I would not break her dreams. All night I watched her, that mine heart might keep One face to dream of through the dark of death If he should slay me. Then a sense of dawn Stole gradually through the blue, wet air; Cool dawn, with dew and silence, fair and fresh! In the white light she lay there, and I looked Long on her: and I left her then, and went, Calling my men, and led them thence afield To a smooth level sward, for fighting made, Between the gray bents and the leafy woods, A dancing-ground for maidens. Such a stir Came from the beached black ships, as April, hears About the populous hives, when the blown scents Lure, to their garnering, the frugal bees, And they swarm forth: so swarmed upon the shore Sigurd's well-armoured men: some by the fires Eating, some buckling on their gleaming arms, Shouting their war-songs, beating on their shields Full of rude jests; and I saw Sigurd there, Standing apart, long-haired, and great of limb, With a soft silken kirtle, and his helm, Winged, flaming in the sunlight. Then my men Halted, for vantage of the broken ground, While I strode out upon the sward, and called To Sigurd; but blind rage gat hold of him, And he came at me, whirling his bright axe. And I leapt out to meet him, so men say, Laughing, and ran upon him, and his blow Broke down my guard, and bit the shoulder-bone, But mine axe clove clean through the angry face, Right to the brain; and, as I drew it back, He swayed, and fell, and his bronze armour rang Loudly; and from both armies came a shout Crying, "Sigurd is slain! Sigurd is slain!" One mourning and one joyous, while my men Stood round him prone, and marvelled at his strength, And no one feared him now. But they came on Avenging, and the crashing of their shock Broke round us; and the ringing blows, and shouts, And screams of dying men were born aloft With dust of battle; and lightening axes whirled, Lifting and falling: keen, and bright, and blue They fell, but they were lifted dull and red, While we rolled backward and forward in waves of fight, And fluctuating chance, and those who fell, Drowned there, amid the press of trampling feet.
So, all day long, the uncertain combat flowed, Between the gray bents and the broken ground; And the smooth sward was cumbered with the dead, On whom we stumbled. But at last the night Came, shadowing with her blue veils the sea, And we and they drew off; and when the noise Of war was stilled, and only moans of men Broke silence, with the laughter of the sea That curled, and foamed, and rippled on the beach, I hailed them, and they answered me, and sent Tall Flosi, son of Gunnar, their best man Since Sigurd fell. Over the level sward, Now with the dead strown thick as shocks of corn After a reaping, strode he; and the moon Tipped his bright spear with silver, lit his helm And burnished shield; but when his eyes and mine Met, and he knew me, he stood waiting there. And I spoke, pointing, with my spear, to those White faces staring sightless to the moon From the smooth sward: "Lo! let us make a truce And mourn these dead, for they were goodly men. My friends or thine, who lie there strengthless now With Sigurd whom I slew. Him men shall mourn In Bergthorsknoll, as the bright gods in heaven Mourn golden Balder; but his praise shall be Within the hearts and on the lips of men A song for ever. Him I hated not, Nay, rather loved! Though he bore hate to me For Swinefell's spoiling, and for Gudrun's sake, Her, whom mine eyes beholding, straight mine heart Desired with all its strength. So for one prize Strove we, nor could we yield, but one must die: Whence lies he there. The gods have willed it so! But let us build a pyre within his ship Heaped up with spoil, and let us mourn for him, And launch him, burning, on the eternal sea. And when the dawn of the third day is red, If your mind is for fighting, we shall fight Again; or ye shall launch your ships and go Over the bright ways of the shining sea." I spake, and Flosi answered, gazing down Upon the dead, whose armour glimmered there Under the shining moon, as glimmer pools Innumerable in the leafless woods: "Yea, one slim maid hath slain too many men.
Well is she Gudrun called, unto men's hearts A snare and peril! What is in one face That men should die for it? A kitchen slut To some dull clown is royal. But he lies There, and I cannot hold mine heart from tears So loved I him: I count all women light As flax beside his loss. Why didst not thou, When we two met amid the ringing blows And mine axe failed me, strike?" And I, to him, Impatient, for my wound was cold and irked My shoulder: "Go, and boast among the ships That Helgi fled thee. Helmsdale held me once. I could not slay thee for Kiartan's sake." And he, astonied, stood there, as if light Fell on remembered places in his heart: "Kiartan! O Kiartan!" broke from him In one long sigh; and he drew in his breath Quickly, remembering his brother's stead Above the land-locked bays; and his heart saw His mother bend down over the bright hearth, With her sweet, patient face, so old and wise, Lit by the flickering firelight. Thus he stood, Forgetting war and death; and when he spoke Again, his voice was changed, and soft in speech, While we went down toward the twinkling fires That lit the shore, and set a watch with brands To scare the wolves, who barked within the woods, Snuffing the tainted air. And Flosi came, Alone of all the Jarls, up to mine house, While they abode there. And when dawn was red Upon the third day, launching their black ships, They went upon the bright ways of the sea.
Softly the sails dropped down that sea of light Under the milky skies; all liquid gold The pure fire broken by the cleaving prows And whitening in their wake; as I watched them I thought all life went thus, man's voyaging heart, Over the loud, glad, golden ways of time. With oars taught by a song, to seek some joy, Some rapture, some warm isle in happy seas, Adventuring. A lure there is for us In far horizons, dreamed-of, misty lands. A voice that calls us. Yea, but look on love! She lay there who, but two nights past, had watched One burning ship drift over the sea's rim Into the dark. Was she not mine indeed, Now, whom mine arm had won? All mine! all mine! The long, bright braids of hair; the little breasts, Like cups of carven ivory; the smooth, Cool, marble whiteness; curves one knew by touch Only, too gradual for eyes: it seemed God's hands, there, had felt joy in them, and wrought Delighting: and the blue eyes, brimmed with light; And thee, my son, forged in the intense hour's flame And inmost heat of whiteness. Mine! all mine! All mine: and yet some shadow slipped from me, Some frail, soft, sweet, intangible delight Escaping from mine hands. So have I gone Over blue windless seas, bare of all life, And urged the labouring oars; but every dawn Showed still the same blue, stainless shield, whose boss Was our one ship, until it hushed our songs, That deep, vast, desolating blue of sky And tranquil waters. I had all of her But some few drops of joy she yielded not, They being hers to give or keep, a dew Distilled within her soul. Yea, I loved her! I think no love is peace, and we but break Against each other; and our hands are vain To grasp what is worth holding; and our sense Too coarse a net to snare what no speech saith, We go alone through all our days, alone Even when all is given! But him she loved; And dreamed upon his face, remembering.
Even so, I am glad! Yea, all my heart is glad I had her for mine own. I grasped the joy, The quick, warm, breathing life; and if the dream Fled from me, yet mine hands held priceless things, And dreams are winged to fly. They are poor fools Who deem the better love is a bowed heart And silent lips. If thou hadst beauty close, Because the white bird fluttered on thy breast, Wouldst loose it? Or would not a quicker pulse Beat in thine heart, and eager fingers close More firmly on the snowy, ruffled plumes, Till the thing yielded, panting? Will ye win? Then must ye dare. There is a lean saint stalled Somewhere among my scullions, in the stead: A half-drowned rat we haled from out the sea, Who says God saved him! He stakes his poor life, Having not strength enough to lift mine axe, Against a greater glory. Love to him Is as a golden net to snare his feet, And women perilous lures: he would keep them maids, Nor make one mother, but would rather see Life, which the gods made lovely, fade and die Ashen as winter woods, nor break again In all the foaming blossom of the spring, Whitening every field. He never knew The keen, sweet joy that smites through every sense Into the shuddering soul, and whelms the world In an immortal glory, while God builds Life beyond us, creating out of clay The world's imperishable dream, the hope, The wonder, the desire, that gives us sight Beyond our mortal doom. I have little wit; I only know that in the looms of time God's will moves like a shuttle to and fro. I have heard him in the waves, and on the wind; I have seen his splendour shine among the swords, Soften the eyes of women, light and smile On a child's lips; and know his presence there Where all the waves stream eagerly to lick The sunset's bloody splendours. Balder, the bright Bea
utiful Balder, whose eyes hold our hope, Who hath made love a light, and life a song, In all men's eyes, and on their lips, who hath sown The fields of heaven thick with golden fires, As men sow corn: and forges in this flame, Of life, with ringing blows, a strong man's soul As swords are fashioned, keen-edged, straight, and blue, How shall I die dispraising thee, whose praise Comes, laden with the blown scents of the spring, Opening dewy eyelids of bright buds, And brings the swallows? Thee I will not curse, Nor life, nor women, nor the fool himself Who blinks weak eyes, and calls the glory vain.
The sea is darkened now; and I can hear The long moan of the waves upon the shore. Some fret is on me! I would go again Over the gray fields of the restless sea, Among the vexed waves and the stinging spray. Nay, one drowns here in death; and why not there To wash about among the changing tides Under the changing moon? I would not rest Within a little earth. As Sigurd went, Send me; and she will watch me burning, drift Over the rim of Ocean, ere I sink Into the dark still deeps, where are ribbed wrecks And strong men dead. Lo! it is time to die, For the old glory fades out of the world And the swords rust in peace. Yea, I would go Now, for this death is but another sea To venture on; a strong man will win through And cast up somewhere on another shore With his old lust for fighting. All of life I have seen, and many cities of proud kings, And I have gotten gold, and wine, and fame, Among strange peoples, and white girls were mine To love a little while on drowsy nights, When a low, yellow moon lights up a land Full of ripe stooks. Now it is time to go, Regretting nothing. Gudrun, come to me! Come to me, Gudrun! Lean thy lovely face Over me once again. 'Tis wet with tears: We have grown close together. Weep no more; Let the old wonder light up in thine eyes; Death will be dark without it.
